Back to Being Nobody

The topic of university came up in the least dramatic way possible.

At breakfast.

My mother was scrolling through her tablet, my father had the news open on his phone, and my brothers were already halfway into their day—mentally elsewhere, physically present.

“You’ll be returning to university next week,” my mother said, as if she were mentioning the weather.

I looked up from my toast. “Alright.”

That was it.

No discussion about grades. No warnings. No expectations. Just a statement of fact.

The middle brother glanced at me over his coffee. “You’ll manage?”

“I’ve managed before,” I replied. “With far less sleep.”

That earned a small exhale of amusement. No one pushed further.

The university looked exactly the same as I remembered.

Which was comforting.

It wasn’t impressive in a brochure way, but it wasn’t embarrassing either. Decent infrastructure. Functional labs. Professors who knew their subjects well enough and students who were competent enough to pass.

Low-key good.

The kind of place that didn’t attract attention, just like me.

I walked through the gates unnoticed. No one recognized me as the student who’d been absent. No one asked questions. I blended back into the crowd with alarming ease.

Classes resumed without ceremony.

I took my usual seat—back row, near the aisle. Close enough to see the board, far enough to be ignored. The professor continued mid-sentence like I’d never left. Slides flicked by. Concepts were explained, repeated, and underlined.

I listened when it mattered.

When attendance was called, my name paused the professor for half a second.

“Present,” I said.

A checkmark was made. Life went on.

Assignments followed the same routine.

“Submit before midnight.”

“No plagiarism.”

“This contributes to your internal assessment.”

I wrote them the way I always had—clean, efficient, and forgettable. Not bad enough to be questioned. Not good enough to be praised. Submitted a few hours before the deadline, just to prove I was still participating in society.

During breaks, students gathered in familiar groups. Conversations floated past me—complaints about deadlines, gossip about professors, and exaggerated plans for the future.

I sat alone, scrolling through nothing in particular.

Not lonely. Just unoccupied.

Someone from my batch looked at me once, squinting slightly, like they were trying to place me.

I met their eyes, nodded politely, and looked away.

They didn’t try again.

By the time the last class ended, the day had passed quietly. No announcements. No realizations. No sense of return.

I went home with the same bag, the same posture, and the same absence of urgency.

That night, lying on my bed, I thought about how easily life slid back into place.

No expectations.

No pressure.

No one was watching closely enough to care.

Back to routine.

Back to anonymity.

Back to being nobody in particular.

I closed my eyes, oddly satisfied.

This—this was manageable.

After coming back, I did what I considered a productive use of my energy.

I rested.

Not collapsed. Not dramatically exhausted. Just… rested. Shoes off, bag abandoned near the door, body sinking into the bed like it belonged there. The day hadn’t been hard—it just required existing among people, and that always took more out of me than expected.

Dinner was announced the usual way.

No calling. No reminders.

The smell simply reached my room, and I followed it.

At the table, conversation happened around me, not at me.

“How were classes?” my father asked, more out of habit than concern.

“Normal,” I said. “Still standing.”

My mother glanced up. “Nothing unusual?”

I thought about it. Then shook my head. “No one noticed I was gone. Or back.”

She hummed softly, not displeased.

The eldest brother studied me for a moment. “That doesn’t bother you?”

I picked up my glass. “It’s efficient.”

The middle brother smiled faintly, like he understood something the others didn’t.